Kicker of Elves
I've always imagined this song as the result of a challenge issued by one of Robert Pollard's Monument Club buddies. Pollard boasts one day that he can write a song about anything, and one of his mates challenges him to do so. "Say something," Pollard says. "Anything, and I'll write a song about it right now. If these guys decide it's a real song, you owe me a case of Bud."
His friend, who drunkenly stumbled into a yard gnome on his way over to Pollard's, hits upon a gem. "OK, champ, how about kicker of elves?"
Pollard thinks for a second, takes a swig of beer, and begins a quick strum on the acoustic guitar already in his lap. "Dee dee dee dee dee dee dee kicker of elves," he sings. His buddy smirks. That's no song, he thinks. But he looks around and sees the rest of the guys listening and nodding. No one is even taking a sip from their ubiquitous cans of beer.
Out of nowhere, Pollard starts to sing something that, were he willing to admit, has been kicking around his head the past few days. "On high seas in search of the sickly sweet milk of selfish love
and knife these for warm fresh blood." He'd thought of it as a pirate song, but he could never find the right melody for it. Here, it just seemed to work. He went back to the beginning, then continued, "In studded crown the thief of souls, the parasites - the bugs of gold. This fertile land now spoiled and sold."
He finished to rousing applause from the guys, all of whom had stuck their beer cans between their legs so they could clap. All save for the challenger, that his, who tossed his empty into the garbage can by the door and muttered as he headed toward the door.
"What was that?" Pollard says.
"I said I'm going out to get your case."
His friend, who drunkenly stumbled into a yard gnome on his way over to Pollard's, hits upon a gem. "OK, champ, how about kicker of elves?"
Pollard thinks for a second, takes a swig of beer, and begins a quick strum on the acoustic guitar already in his lap. "Dee dee dee dee dee dee dee kicker of elves," he sings. His buddy smirks. That's no song, he thinks. But he looks around and sees the rest of the guys listening and nodding. No one is even taking a sip from their ubiquitous cans of beer.
Out of nowhere, Pollard starts to sing something that, were he willing to admit, has been kicking around his head the past few days. "On high seas in search of the sickly sweet milk of selfish love
and knife these for warm fresh blood." He'd thought of it as a pirate song, but he could never find the right melody for it. Here, it just seemed to work. He went back to the beginning, then continued, "In studded crown the thief of souls, the parasites - the bugs of gold. This fertile land now spoiled and sold."
He finished to rousing applause from the guys, all of whom had stuck their beer cans between their legs so they could clap. All save for the challenger, that his, who tossed his empty into the garbage can by the door and muttered as he headed toward the door.
"What was that?" Pollard says.
"I said I'm going out to get your case."
Labels: Bee Thousand
posted by John Kenyon at 8:51 AM
3 Comments:
haha, i like the creative fiction. :)
i like the creative fiction, too. and i love this song so much that, for a time, a coworker bestowed the title on me as a nickname.
You should try harder. Set your sights on the bar above all the other origin stories of enigmatic songs. And your fantasies of friendship. And the ways people talk.
My boyfriend was right about you.
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